


Playing Patience

by orphan_account



Category: Cabin Pressure, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Simon's fault for giving him the phone. No, it's Douglas' fault for installing the Grindr app. No, it's really his fault for using the damn thing. But he's here now, and there's no way he can possibly safeword out of this. Not if he actually wants the voices echoing in his head to shut up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Patience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyjamapants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyjamapants/gifts), [mundungus42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundungus42/gifts), [Bluestocking79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestocking79/gifts).



> And here I dive into the Skyfall fangirling. What other way to begin with this odd little short where Martin gets laid and Bond lies to himself?
> 
> Many thanks to Mundungus42, Pyjamapants, and Bluey for aiding, abeting, and betaing. 
> 
> Obviously, none of these characters are mine, and I apologize profusely to their creators for any offense caused. Some lines of dialogue are taken from _Cabin Pressure_.

Martin fidgeted under the stranger's intense scrutiny, his toes curling on the thick carpet. He watched as the flush and heat of embarrassment crept up his scrawny body, stared at his limp and pathetic cock in its straggly nest of bright red pubic hair.

It was Douglas' fault stealing his mobile and installing the Grindr app on it.

No, it was Simon's fault for giving him the wretched secondhand smartphone in the first place. 

But now, _now_ standing naked in front of this absolutely gorgeous man in a hotel room far nicer than he'd ever stood in before – except that one time in Cremona – Martin realized that he only had himself to blame for agreeing to this. 

He tried to breathe, but all he could hear in his head were the voices of Carolyn, Herc, Douglas, Arthur, passengers, clients…

_"Really Martin, we all know you're the pilot, everyone who's ever met you knows you’re the pilot!"_

_"And how does sir propose we solve this problem?"_

_"Skip, you've gone all red. Are you okay? Only I think that the cauliflower might be…"_

_"MARTIN, YOU BERK!"_

_"Oh, Martin… You've gone and ruined it. Ah well, you lose some and then…"_

And every time he unlocked his phone, the app sat there. 

So, he'd taken a deep breath and launched it.

* * *

Bond knew better. He really, really knew better. 

Not that that had ever stopped him before. 

The Grindr app was the perfect temptation, the perfect diversion. Q branch didn't need to know about what sort of things he had on his _personal_ mobile. Never mind that he wasn't supposed to have the damned thing with him anyway.

But he was so very, very bored. This was more ethical than prostitution, anyway. 

As if he'd ever truly worry about that.

The sub was called Martin – probably not his real name – tiny, red haired, red-faced, his cheap polyester jacket with a captain's epaulets draped neatly over a chair and the rest of his uniform folded neatly below it – really, Bond thought, who would _want_ to take care of such a tatty thing but a man for whom it was his life?

It wasn't sympathy tightening in his chest, never sympathy. Martin was here because he wanted to be dommed, wanted what Bond could give him – or take away. But the image of the jacket and trousers and epaulets struck Bond as… poignant. Oh. _That's_ why. 

Trousers, jacket, epaulets, pathetic and tatty polyester, shoes too highly shined, socks with the hole in the big toe, worn grey pants, faded cotton from multiple washings. All tended to with meticulous care. But who cared for him? Well, that answer was obvious enough.

"What about suspension?" he asked. _Focus or leave, Bond._

"It's just that... well, um, ok, the last time I tried to do that, I ended up vomiting all over the dom's carpet and I don't think that's something you want me to do, the hotel might object, but you know, whatever's fine with you..." Martin stammered.

Bond pressed his thumb against Martin's lower lip and he stopped with a surprised squeak.

"Martin," he growled. "Focus. Are there any other limits I should know about?"

"Visible marks. I- I have to fly, and my colleagues… they don't know about… and really, a captain of an airline…"

"Martin…"

"Um, Right. I'm okay with some pain, but nothing excessive. No knives. No, um… fluids other than semen and saliva. Please no blood, I don't… it makes me faint. Ropes are… I like ropes and the crop. But if you want… I suppose… I'm humiliated enough already, please don't make it worse, and oh, please no breath, um, stuff: I panic and pass out. I have this abnormality of the inner ear, and if I get dizzy I pass out, and I think that's it, but like I said, if you want to do any of that I might… I mean, I don't want to, but there's not much I can do to stop you, so like I said if you want…"

"Martin," Bond purred, grasping his shoulder and roughly pulling him close. "Unless I tell you to, or you want to use the safe word, do not talk."

Martin whimpered and the flush that had faded during his panicked speech returned suddenly. It was, Bond decided, _adorable_. Oh, yes, he could work with this one. Take him completely apart.

"Good boy. Now, what is your safe word?"

"Avionics."

Bond dragged his thumb from Martin's chin to his jawbone. Martin exhaled, a soft needy sound, and turned his head, baring the side of his throat and jaw.

The skin of Martin's throat was pale, almost translucent; marks would last, Bond thought, for days.

"No visible marks," Bond promised and leaned in, running his tongue up Martin's throat.

Martin tasted of cheap hotel soap, smelled of dry cleaning chemicals and aircraft – recycled air and stale food.

"Kneel," Bond growled into his ear as he pressed his head back to center, running his hand up to find Martin's hair.

Martin sank to the ground, his eyes still fixed on Bond. Sank didn't begin to describe it, Martin actually _crumpled_ to the ground, never losing focus on him. 

Any other time, with anyone else, Bond would have been disgusted by the way a sub folded in front of him, but with Martin, for whatever reason – and Bond wasn't particularly in the mood to parse his motivations – his submission and his vulnerability were _fucking perfect_. Martin's eyes were huge, his lower lip, caught between his teeth, plump, kissable. His mouth, chapped lips and all, his mouth was just _made_ to be fucked. 

Bond flashed forward, gave himself over to the image of Martin, bound and helpless, his eyes wide as he came, gasping, oh, yes, definitely silently, Bond wanted to watch his mouth open and close, gulping in air as he came, unable to speak, unable to even utter the most basic of words. Bond wanted to see the rope burns and bruises across Martin's thighs, his cock red and leaking as Martin pleaded to come – oh no, not with words, never with words, but with those ridiculously pale eyes. 

He tightened his hand in Martin's hair. 

Martin made a noise that _could_ have been a gasp. Bond's cock twitched. 

This was going to be good.

"We'll start with my shoes," Bond said.

* * *

Martin slowly drifted back to reality with the gentle pressure of a cool hand on his back. 

"Martin," his Master was saying. "Martin, it's time."

Martin blinked and pushed his head back into the pillow. The body beside his shifted and the hand began to move up his back. 

"Martin," his Master said again. 

Martin stretched, feeling the pull and burn of used and abused muscles. He drifted for a moment on perfect contentment and then raised his head. 

His Master was watching him – blue eyes that missed nothing, a face that looked old, short hair, lips that were surprisingly soft. 

"All right?" Martin whispered.

"Do you need to shower again?" his Master asked.

Martin shook his head and slowly sat up. Where he was still naked, his Master was dressed – perfectly pressed trousers, shirt and tie – the jacket was draped over a chair.

"Thank you," his Master said. "That was… excellent."

"Thank _you_ ," Martin replied as he pushed himself from the bed, made his way to his neat pile of clothing, began to dress. "I mean, that was… _brilliant_."

His Master smiled, easy, infectious, charming. He rose from the bed and walked to Martin.

Pulling up his trousers, Martin stilled as his Master neared him. 

"I mean…" he blurted, "I'd had the app installed as a joke – didn't think I'd actually use it, but if this is what happens, then I do think it's brilliant because, ok, it's not like I have the time or money to have a regular dom or anything, but this was… this goes beyond just… I mean, it was brilliant and, _you're_ brilliant and…" He stopped as his Master pressed his hand to his cheek, leaned down and kissed him. 

Where his Master's kissed before had been harsh and demanding, this was gentle, not tentative, certainly never that, Martin knew exactly who was in control throughout, but now, need sated, his Master took the time to explore Martin's mouth, press against him, muffling the whimper that rose involuntarily. 

"Very well," his Master murmured when he finally broke the kiss. "Very well."

Martin didn't allow himself to look back as the hotel room door clicked shut behind him, merely took a deep breath and tucked his hat more firmly beneath is arm.

* * *

"So… how was your date?" Douglas leered.

"Fine. Fine. Fine." Martin ducked his head and pretended to focus on the preflight checks.

"And of course anything that requires the repetition of… Especially when you're fidgeting like _that_. That fine, was it?"

"Yes, all right. Better than fine," Martin amended. 

"Care to share any _details_?" Douglas pressed. "If there were _three_ fines, then it must definitely have been, perhaps… satisfactory? Certainly not, brilliant, though. Sir would never debase himself so much to use that adjective – useful as it is around here."

Martin turned. Beneath his uniform, the rope burns chafed as he shifted in his seat. Memories of his Master's strong hands, oh those hands on his hair, his back, his arse, his cock; the memory of his Master's teeth on his shoulder, his inner thigh, sent a surge of arousal through him.

"It was fine, and that's all you're going to get, Douglas," he replied, knowing that his face was redder than red and for once, not caring.

Because there was no way in this world or the next that he'd _ever_ tell Douglas just how _fucking perfect_ it had been.


End file.
